


nor are we forgiven

by CallicoKitten



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drabble Sequence, Eventual Smut, Infidelity, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: Odin whispers ceaselessly in Eivor’s ear of selfishness, of just rewards. Of deserving. Take what you are owed, he hisses. What you want. What you need. They are all beneath you, they dance to your tune. But the words still taste like ash when they are spoken. Roll off the tongue with a bitter after taste.
Relationships: Eivor/Tarben (Assassin's Creed), Eivor/Vili Hemmingson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. the gentleness that comes

**Author's Note:**

> i am Conflicted. i'm also desperately trying to write since lockdown III is really starting to bite so this is my offering.
> 
> i'm not 100% sure where this is going (if anywhere) but it'll most likely be interconnected drabbles. also, i ended up playing male eivor from about a third of the way through but i've tried to keep gendered references to a minimum so it should work with however your eivor identifies.

“You know that this was a momentary heat,” Eivor tells him amongst the snow and pale light of dawn and means it.

Vili’s body is angled away as he rights his clothes. He tilts his head back to Eivor and nods. He means it too, Eivor thinks, because once, far across the sea in the wild lands of their childhood this may have been so but not now. Not here.

Here they have duties. They have priorities.

There is Tarben.

So, Eivor resists the pull. The heedy, intoxicated session Vili awakens. The memories of being boundless and free, grubby faced and bloody kneed. Of stolen first kisses in the summer heat and oaths and blood-bound promises. Those things are not for here. For Snotinghamscire. For England.

He is gone already when Eivor wakes but there is warmth where he lay at Eivor’s back.

Odin whispers ceaselessly in Eivor’s ear of selfishness, of just rewards. Of deserving. _Take what you are owed,_ he hisses. _What you want. What you need. They are all beneath you, they dance to your tune._ But the words still taste like ash when they are spoken. Roll off the tongue with a bitter after taste.

“I see Trygve as Jarl and you with me.”

When they were younger Vili’s smile shone like the sun, bright and bold and blinding. Now it is quieter. Not restrained but self-assured. There is warmth yes, but it brings to mind the Valkyrie’s road now. The curtains of light shimmering high above them against the black of night. Beautiful, ethereal and unattainable with Eivor’s mortal hands.

-

Vili announces he will make his own way to Raventhorpe. There is much to pack, much to see to before he leaves, after all. On the water, Birna mistakes Eivor’s silence for sorrow and clucks her tongue. “We will find a nice monastery to pillage, Sunbeam. That will chase away the ghosts.”

Eivor does not bother correcting her. They need supplies to expand the farms, to feed their ever-growing settlement. A raid will do them all good.

So, they return home, blood spattered, ship heavy with gold and jewels and precious metals. Tarben arrives as they are unloading, bearing a tray of small honeyed cakes that is empty by the time it reaches Eivor. “Don’t worry love, I saved some for you.”

The cakes are warm but his smile is warmer and it is all so simple. A warm hearth, a soft mattress on which to rest weary bones, soothe all hurts and ills.

“I missed you,” Tarben says, between kisses.

Eivor smiles. “I’ve been gone a lot longer before.”

Tarben tilts his head. “Yes, and it doesn’t get any easier.” It’s not said bitterly but Eivor cannot help but hear it that way. Was it not the root of Dag’s rage? The odd, nameless feeling that has sprung up between Eivor’s ribs each time Randvi suggests a new ally.

That is not something for now, though.

“Bed,” Eivor pants and Tarben huffs out a breathless little laugh and lifts Eivor easily. It is but a few steps to the bed. Nali has already found her way here from the docks, curled amongst the furs. She grumbles unhappily about being displaced, stalks away with her tail held high.

“I will be paying for that for as long as you remain at the docks, you know,” Tarben says gravely.

“Is it me you spend your days waiting for, Tarben, or that cat?”

Tarben smiles. It is so unlike Vili’s, Eivor thinks. Soft, familiar. A gentle heat, fire pits at Yuletide, a hot meal on a cold day. “I’m not going to answer that.” He says and the look in his eyes is so tender, so gentle, that Eivor surges up to kiss it away, to press all the things that can’t be put into words into his mouth.

It was merely a momentary heat, a flickering flame, for what fool would give all this up?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a few weeks before Vili deigns to join them, swans into Ravensthorpe late one evening with a smirk while Eivor is out on the edge of the village, assisting with the expansion of the grain farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was one of those "i have to get this chapter done to move on" things so it's not particularly great

It is a few weeks before Vili deigns to join them, swans into Ravensthorpe late one evening with a smirk while Eivor is out on the edge of the village, assisting with the expansion of the grain farm. It is one of the children that comes to announce his arrival, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Eivor follows her back to their small tavern to find Vili settled in already, drinking with Eivor’s crew.

“You made it then. I was beginning to worry you’d gotten lost along the way, Arse-stick.”

Vili’s smirk is well-worn and familiar. “Well, Wolf-kissed, when you said _village_ I was actually on the look out for a _village_. Not this muddy collection of huts.”

“Not up to your standards, Hemmingson? I promise, no one here will miss you if you choose not to make your home here.”

Vili’s laugh fills the room. “Mm, I’ve heard that one before Wolf-kissed. I’m sure you spent every spare hour you had since returning from Snotinghamscire awaiting my arrival with baited breath.”

“We _have_ been in port all this time,” Rollo says, before Eivor can answer.

Vili grins widely. “Worried you’d miss my arrival?”

“Building a farm,” Eivor corrects, remains steadfast.

Vili thinks he’s already won though, is practically glowing with it. “Call it what you want, Wolf-kissed. What matters now is that I’m here,” he throws an arm around Eivor’s shoulders, presses a mug of ale into his hands. “And I hope you’ll make it worth my while.”

-

It is still a few hours before dawn when Eivor makes the usually short journey from the docks to Tarben’s bed. The journey is made longer by the fact that the ground seems as slippery and unforgiving as sheet ice, that the world spins in lazy circles.

Eivor has spent most nights here lately. Sigurd’s moods remain stubbornly dark, increasingly strange. They have infested the long-house; unseen spectres of fright and paranoia and fragmented threads of Fulke’s nonsense lurking just out of sight. Wolves in a dark a forest, waiting patiently for the opportune moment to pounce.

Tarben murmurs sleepily when Eivor clambers into the bed beside him. Mouse is already there; hardly dares set foot in the long-house these days, far more willing to risk a swat from Nali than Sigurd’s cold wrath.

“Your friend has arrived,” Tarben says, when they’re pressed together beneath the furs. “That means you will be leaving in the morning, yes?”

“We need supplies for building and there are some of Hytham’s marked men to be had along the way.”

Tarben exhales. With one of his hands, he plays with the short hairs at the nape of Eivor’s neck, finger-tips ghosting over the raised notches of Eivor’s scars. He never says _stay longer_ , _send the crew alone,_ but Eivor feels it in the way he curls tighter, the way he presses a kiss to the top of Eivor’s head.


	3. Chapter 3

By late afternoon, they’re standing over the smouldering carnage of an abbey in Hamtunscire. It is technically dangerous for them to be here; Hamtunscire is still Alfred’s stronghold, the last corner of England but for Cornwall to be pacified, but the pickings are rich and the Order apparently have business here.

“You’re looking for something,” Vili says, in the aftermath.

Eivor does not look from the well. Winter is beginning to thaw out into spring, the smattering of snow they saw around Yuletide has melted and the dark, heavy clouds rolling in off the sea in the distance herald nothing but rain. Even now, there is heat at the back of Eivor’s neck from the sun, sweat beneath the heavy clothes he wears.

Vili circles close behind him, comes to stand on the opposite side of the well. “More riches?”

Eivor tests the boards obscuring the opening. “Perhaps.”

Vili tilts his head. “Seems a lot of effort to go to when the rest of their treasures were hardly obscured.”

Eivor draws his bow. “You’d be surprised.”

He drops down into the damp little cavern below, finds the scrap of parchment, a note for the Oil as Hytham said. As he is casting around for the quickest route out, a rope is slung down and Vili hoists him up. “Find what you were looking for?”

“I did,” Eivor smiles.

“But you’re not going to tell me,” Vili surmises.

“Eivor!” Birna calls. “We’re all set here!”

“It is a long story, my friend,” Eivor says. Not quite dodging the question, merely putting it off for now. Afterall, the guards here may lie dead in the smouldering ruins but the smoke will soon alert others, reinforcements will arrive.

The corners of Vili’s smile tug downwards. He tilts his head, half disappointed, half curious. “And you’re not going to tell me?”

They’re interrupted by Eivor’s lieutenant calling from the river. “Eivor! We’re all set here!”

“Excellent,” Eivor calls back. Vili walks with him down to the banks. “I’ll tell you another time, Vili,” he assures. “Preferably when there is mead to be had.”

Vili is not sated by Eivor’s attempts at placification, not that Eivor thought he would be. “It is rather a long journey back to Ravensthorpe,” he insists, stubbornly. It is, and Eivor has made no secret of his work for Hytham from his crew. He could explain to Vili on the journey back but -

They have reached the ship now. Out of habit, Eivor bends to check that the supplies are properly secured. There is no need to, there never really has been but is something he has always done and will continue to do. Satisfied, he pats the top of one of the crates and straightens up. “Good work. Get this back to the village. Randvi will have left instructions as to how it should be divided up.”

“As always, Sunbeam,” Birna says, clambering aboard.

Eivor steps back.

“You’re not coming with us?” Vili asks.

Eivor shakes his head. There are a few more targets to eliminate near here, a bureau to hunt out and a rather handsome stallion in the stables that will do well as a stead. “There is more to do here. I will not be long, Vili.” He steps away, heads quickly towards the stables where the horses that did not manage to break free shift from foot to foot nervously, nickering amongst themselves.

The stallion has already been fitted with a saddle and stirrups, the man that had probably been intending to ride him lies dead a few feet from the door, several arrows in his back. His armour is light, he bears only a short sword. A messenger. Probably meant to ride to the next town or nearest barracks for aid in the event of a long-ship being sighted.

Eivor steps over him to approach the horse, making low soothing noises as he goes. The horse does not seem nervous at all, lets Eivor lead him out placidly without complaint. He isn’t surprised to find Vili waiting for him out there, has been expecting this but hasn’t actually given any thought to how he would respond. When they were younger they roamed far and wide together and in Snotinghamscire it had felt good to relive those days but Eivor is used to wandering on his own these days, to doing things his own way.

“I’m coming with you,” Vili says; arms folded, eyes hard, daring Eivor to try and argue with him. “I didn’t join your clan to while away my time waiting at the docks between raids.”

He moves past Eivor to the stables, stops in front of a chestnut mare and pauses, turns back towards him with a smirk. “And anyway, Birna thinks you spend far too much time on your own to be healthy.”


	4. Chapter 4

It is easy to fall back into their old way of being. A homecoming of a sorts. Not of the slow-spreading warmth, the surge of pride, of relief, of community and belonging that swells in Eivor’s breast each time Ravensthorpe comes into view amongst the trees or along the water; no, it is entirely different.

It is galloping through thick snow in the dead of winter; scaling mountains and glaciers; diving headfirst into fjords. Traversing the hidden caverns behind waterfalls and crossing frozen lakes on a dare, breathless laughter and pounding hearts in their chests, ears straining to pick up any shifting of the ice beneath their boots. The thrill of battle and blood lust; the thick, sharp anticipation of the hunt and something in Eivor’s chest is revelling in it. Purring, pleased.

“So, this is how you spend your days, Wolf-Kissed,” Vili calls, his voice carrying clear above the thundering of hooves and the harsh clash of metal on metal. They have cornered a zealot just outside of Winchester, a hulking brute wielding a large, imposing axe. They had come upon him quite by chance and launched a rather ill-timed attack just as a small troop of Alfred’s men were passing by. Unhorsed early, Vili is attacking the brute head on while Eivor picks off the soldiers and pelts the zealot with arrows tipped alternately with poison and oil set alight.

Eivor knocks another arrow and drives the horse back around. There should be cold dread, fear keeping him sharp but oddly there is none. “Sounds like you have put a great deal of thought into how I spend my time, Arse-stick!”

Vili’s laugh is bright and harsh and slightly strained. “Not for the reasons you might think!” He shouts back, pausing as he deftly deflects a heavy blow from the zealot’s axe.

“And what reasons would those be?” The arrow is let fly, catches a skirmisher in the throat. He drops as his lungs fill with blood. The next arrow meets it’s mark too.

“Jealousy, of course. You would like to imagine me wiling away my days in Snotinghamscire thinking jealously of the adventures you were having but in fact when I first heard you and Sigurd had come to make your home here it was not envy I felt but pity.”

“Pity?” Eivor echoes.

Vili laughs again. “Yes, pity. I imagined you back at Sigurd’s heel, running back and forth at his every beck and call or perhaps farming the land for him, growing the settlement. Growing fat and contented in your quaint little village.”

Now it is Eivor’s turn to laugh. The soldiers around the zealot all lie dead and the man himself is growing tired. Eivor lets loose another arrow, striking him in the arm. He roars with pain and rage, raises his axe clumsily once more. “You imagined I’d gotten fat?”

Vili grins over his shoulder. “I did. Never did I imagine I’d find you here like this: picking fights you cannot ever hope to win on your own!” He catches a blow from the zealot’s axe with his and thrusts upwards, leaves the man’s neck clear and exposed for one of Eivor’s arrows.

The man falls to ground with a heavy thud. After a few moments of stillness, Vili laughs, raises his axe triumphantly. “What a battle! Do they all fall so heavily, Eivor?” He asks, as Eivor dismounts.

His joy is infectious, warms Eivor even as the blood-lust is beginning to ebb, the cool night air closing back in on them. “Unfortunately not, my friend,” Eivor says, bending to retrieve the man’s medallion. “However, many of them do and so far, I have managed to hold my own just fine.”

Vili’s smirk is expected. “Of course, Wolf-kissed,” he teases.

And it would be so easy to yank him down into a biting kiss, so natural to trade the singing steel in his veins for something just as heated, just as dangerous. There is nothing but the echo of Tarben’s laughter in the back of his mind to stop him.


End file.
